Breakfast
by 9r7g5h
Summary: Peggy wasn't the best at it, but she was going to give making breakfast a try.


**AN** : Ok, so. I've decided, to celebrate my 23rd birthday, to post a fanfic every day of November and then post 23 fanfics on my actual birthday. I know, it's an insane venture, to write and post 53 fanfics in a single month, but you know what? That's the kind of insanity I want in my life. So enjoy!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Agent Carter. Marvel does.

* * *

Four am.

Peggy held her breath as her fingers fumbled for the off switch, the little watch Howard had given her to test out surprisingly loud. Biting back a curse as the high pitched squeal continued, she finally let out a sigh when her thumb pressed down on the little knob, resetting the alarm for tomorrow morning.

"Angie?"

It was barely a whisper, just her name wrapped in a sigh to test if she had woken up. Which, if Angie had, Peggy was going to need to have a long talk with Howard. He had, supposedly, designed his watch for stealth, allowing spies and other people who were trying to remain unnoticed the luxury of being able to keep appointments without their cover being blown. But if it could wake up her sleeping girlfriend- who was impossible to wake up before nine on a good day- then he had an issue.

Peggy sighed when nothing happened, Angie's deep breathing remaining steady, her body still. Shifting, careful so the springs wouldn't creak under her, Peggy slid out from under the covers, a shiver sending goose bumps down her arms as the cool air found her. For a single moment she considered lying back down, curling up against Angie and stealing a bit of her warmth before slipping back into sleep-but she couldn't.

She had a mission to complete, and she'd be damned if she didn't.

Her steps were barely audible as she snuck from the room, stepping around the creaking boards and avoiding the multitude of things that littered their floor that, if kicked, could easily disturb the slumbering beauty. Their room was a mess- mostly because of Angie, her habit of stripping the moment they got home and throwing her things on the floor instead of in the hamper turning their otherwise lovely hardwood flooring into a field of slippery scarves and shoes just waiting to trip her.

She managed to make it out, but only just barely, her hand smarting slightly from having to catch herself on the door handle as, just seconds before she escaped, the strap of a heel caught on her toes, sending her stumbling forward, almost smashing her face into the metal. She had saved herself from the embarrassing injury and the embarrassing truth that she, as good of a soldier as she was, couldn't even make it out of her own bedroom without falling on her face.

Put her in an enemy encampment, stick her in some foreign lair, drop her in the middle of a Hydra's den, and she could make her way out just fine. But her girlfriend's shoes were her downfall, something Howard and Jarvis would never let her live down if they found out.

The rest of the house was easy- thick area carpets had been lain out along the halls, cushioning her feet and making the steps silent; Angie hated wearing slippers in the house, and after a few weeks of living there, she had started to complain about sore ankles. So, the carpets were to help with that. They also made it harder for her to detect anyone who had broken into their little abode, for which Peggy overcompensated in every way possible, which generally let her catch the intruders before they could do any real damage, to herself or the house.

The halls were also clear, most of the mess and clutter kept to their own private quarters. Everything else was in tip top shape. It had to be, really: with the Starks and Jarvis and Annie and dozens of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents coming over to visit every few days, she couldn't have anyone believing they lived in a sty. That would be unacceptable.

Something that, at four in the morning, she was glad of. Because it made navigating to her destination that much easier.

She hesitated for a moment, almost fearful to enter what was usually Angie's domain, but she finally took a deep breathe, squared her shoulders, and entered the kitchen.

Peggy could cook. She was, in fact, an excellent cook, despite the ribbing she had gotten the few times it was her turn to cook the meals while in the field for her team (she only had to do it once every few weeks, and if _anyone_ could make field rations actually taste good, not just bearable but good, she would marry them on the spot). But, she had to admit, her skills were a bit…limited. To lunch and dinner, mainly. When she actually had a real kitchen, real food, she could cook with the best of them.

Breakfast, on the other hand? Well…she could cook toast. And pour herself a bowl of cereal. That was pretty much it.

She had just never had time to really learn breakfast. When she was young her mother had always cooked, and by the time she was an adult, mornings were a slightly hurried affair. She didn't have time to dally over a stove when she could be eating on the go. Or, when she had to look presentable, she had to eat quickly, lest she risked getting crumbs in her lipstick.

So she couldn't cook breakfast, but Angie could. Angie was a wonderful cook, and ever since they had moved in together, she had taken over breakfast duties, making them both lovely meals before they had to head on out- Peggy to the office to lead the search for the newest Hyrda hideout, and Angie to her auditions.

While Angie cooked breakfast, Peggy would pack their lunches for the day, and they would head out with a kiss, both ready to fight their own evils: enemy spies and producers.

But sometimes Peggy almost felt guilty, despite Angie's constant reassurances that she liked cooking breakfast, that it was both calming and delicious, a lovely way to start the day that didn't involve a bed and no clothes. So, when Angie had mentioned that her schedule was free for the day, Peggy had scheduled the day off herself, all with the plan to treat her girl.

Which would start with breakfast.

She knew it was a bit overkill, awakening five hours before her girlfriend was supposed to awaken, but knowing herself, she would need the time. Time to search through the multitude of cookbooks that filled one of the cupboards, time to gather together the ingredients, time to make sure her mission was actually going to be a success. And time to prep a couple of buckets of water, just to be on the safe side in case anything caught on fire.

Just shortly after four am, Peggy walked into the kitchen and got to work on what was, perhaps, one of her most important missions yet: making her girlfriend breakfast.

* * *

It was seven thirty when the smell of smoke finally forced Angie from the bed, grumbling to herself as she wrapped her robe around herself to keep out the still semi-chilled air. Two hours ago, she had been awoken by the sound of cursing, the smell of flames and burnt food almost sending her into a tizzy about their hours being on fire, but the smoke had quickly become wet, the sound of splashing as water was thrown onto whatever was burning putting her slightly at ease. Only slightly, for there was never rest when Peggy was in the kitchen before noon, but at least she didn't have to worry about the house going up in flames.

At least not right then.

She had spent the next two hours waiting, prepared at any moment to get up if it seemed like her girlfriend needed her, though letting her work through the process on her own.

If Peggy wanted to learn how to make breakfast, by all means, Angie was more than willing to let her. But the house was a really nice one, and she didn't want to have to move anytime soon, so if the need arose, she would be there.

The newest smell of smoke had been present for more than a couple of minutes now, so it was time she stepped in.

Angie almost wished she hadn't, because the sight of their kitchen was almost enough to make her cry. Or commit murder, either or would be good for now.

Water puddled on the floor, four of the five buckets Peggy had gotten set up empty and scattered across the room. The pans, her _good_ pans, were covered in some burnt but still gooey, bubbling mess, black and brown and somehow almost yellowish in color. Ingredients were scattered all over the counter and table, utensils filling in any empty space not taken up by food, and standing there, in the middle of it all, was a glowing, proud Peggy.

Holding two plates with three almost perfect-looking pancakes each.

"Sorry about the mess," Peggy said, looking around the room and wincing, shrinking in on herself as she was the murderous look in Angie's eyes. "Care for some breakfast?"

Silence- pure, anguished silence. The minute dragged on and on, Peggy growing less and less sure of herself with each passing moment, wondering how deeply she had dug her grave.

Only for Angie's laughter to finally ring out, the woman folding over on herself to support her weight on her knees, her entire body quivering as she fought back the tears from her eyes. Shaking her head, Angie stood, gathering together a couple of the dirty dishes as she moved, clearing enough space for the two plates before plopping them into the sink.

Taking the plates from Peggy, Angie filled in the recently cleared spaces with them, putting them out of harm's way, before reaching up ad pulling Peggy down into a kiss.

Peggy could generally cook, and could generally cook well. Breakfast, however, was not her strong suite. When she did give it try, though, it was honestly her favorite meal of the day.

And the pancakes turned out delicious as well, even if the clean-up from them did take almost the entire day.


End file.
